Valediction
by phollie
Summary: It's a beautiful morning, everything awash in gold and silver, and Nagisa Kaworu is dead. / Misato and Shinji; the aftermath of the falling of an angel.


Something short and poignant to pass the time. I just finished reading the Kaworu arc in the manga today and I. absolutely. lost it. I haven't cried so hard over a manga since Pandora Hearts, and that is saying a LOT.

This was part of a lyrics-drabble challenge between Kita and I in celebration of our favorite band coming out with a new album. This is the first out of five that I've completed. :3

Lyrics are "Handwritten" by The Gaslight Anthem.

* * *

**.valediction**

/

_there's nothing like another soul that's been cut up the same_

_i can understand, you need a minute to breathe_

_and to sew up the seams after all this defeat_

/

It's a beautiful morning, everything awash in gold and silver, and Nagisa Kaworu is dead. The hand that killed him dangles over the edge of the bed, fingertips grazing the cold floor. A white sheet covers a fragile, exhausted body that hasn't moved in hours.

Shinji is only half-awake, but entirely gone.

All the while, Misato stands in the doorway, waiting for the boy to say something but knowing very well that he won't. She can't blame him. She doesn't want to. Because it's a perfect morning with not a single cloud in the sky, and Kaworu, the angel, the travesty, is dead.

It would be useless to apologize at this point. Misato knows that, knows it with that faint tug of remorse in the pit of her stomach when she relives it against her will. She isn't sure which memory is more haunting: the final moment of the angel's life that Shinji had to exterminate, or the aftermath, seeing Shinji's eyes wax emotionless and detached from everything but his own black web of grief. His sadness is so decorated in the skinny lines of him that it's as if Misato could reach out and grab the sticky strings of it, wind them around her wrists, and pull that regret clean out of him so that he can live again.

But that's a fruitless hope if there ever was one. Then again, it seems as if they've all been entertaining thoughts like those lately, the what-ifs and the could-have-beens and the if-only-I-hads. Shinji is all but drowning in them right now, after all, and Misato can only stand in the doorway with her arms crossed and wait for him to come back to life on his own, since he's all but shut out the rest of the world in favor of a life he had to crush in order to save everyone else's, albeit begrudgingly.

It's not like he'd let Misato be of any help anyway.

It's not like she could help even if she tried.

The sunlight bends in wayward rays of white-amber along the walls. The room is bright enough to nearly glow, and yet Shinji's lidded, blank eyes remain shadowed. Misato grits her teeth at the sight of him. If she could, she'd drag him out of bed and force the sunlight into him, let it fill him all the way up until he'd be standing up tall and straight and strong, _alive_, staring at the world head-on rather than ducking away from it out of fear. Or perhaps, Misato thinks, out of apathy. The boy doesn't care anymore, not about the Eva, not about NERV, not about protecting a single goddamn thing but his own splintered sanity. If he even cares about_ that_ much anymore is a mystery to Misato, and one that she's too stuck in the mud to figure out.

From the bed, Shinji sniffs and lifts a weary hand to wipe at his eyes. It's the only sign of movement he's made all morning. Whether or not he'll decide to speak is still unclear.

But while Misato can still speak, she will, and she does. Her voice is hoarse and tired when she says, "I'm sorry. Again."

Shinji lifts his gaze to just above Misato's head. He still won't look at her, or at anyone, but this is close enough for now. It's a sign of life. It's a reaction.

"There's coffee in the kitchen if you want some," Misato says, half-turning on her heel to head out into the hall. Still, she lingers in the doorway, hoping for a tangible response from the broken boy in the bed. When he doesn't give one, she sighs, bows her head, and leaves the room, bidding him a small wave of her hand before closing the door behind her. Her footsteps ring out empty and lonesome down the narrow stretch of hallway. Her eyes are fixed on the floor as she walks.

In the kitchen, the coffee has gone cold.


End file.
